Writing Therapy and Reflections
by innerurge1
Summary: Originally posted as two stories on Livejournal. Chapter 1 is Sara's POV, Chapter 2 is Grissom's POV of the same event. While in counselling, Sara must keep a journal to help vent her frustrations. (What did happen at that CODIS conference before Sara moved to Vegas?) This is a mild M. No smut, but implied naughty thoughts and strong language.
1. Chapter 1

**Writing Therapy**

 _ **Rating:** T (language, sexual suggestion, sorry no smut) **  
Paring:** GSR **  
Genre:** angst **  
Disclaimer:** I don't own CSI._  
 _ **Summary:** While in counselling, Sara must keep a journal to help vent her frustrations._

 _This was the first fanfic I shared to the world originally on livejournal. Originally posted after 8.01 Dead Doll (2) but is set while Sara is in counseling before she and Griss get together._

 _Thanks so much to **chibs_87** for the beta! All mistakes are, of course, mine and I refuse to share them!_

* * *

I don't know when it was that I first fell in love, or even lust for that matter, with Gil Grissom. The first time I laid eyes on him, sex was the last thing on my mind. His lecture was all about analyzing blood evidence on the violently murdered. Not really a turn on.

During the question and answer portion of the lecture I picked his brain. If anything, I might have felt an attraction to his intellect. There is something really hot about a geek's brain. Being a geek myself, I suppose it is only natural that I feel that way. I think he may have felt it too because once the lecture was over he hopped down from the platform and asked if I would like to discuss things in greater detail over lunch.

You have got to love a man who can describe the role of beetles in determining time of death over a turkey club. At this point, I was intrigued, but hardly imagining what his mouth would feel like sucking my breasts. I was sure of one thing; we were the same kind of people. Even amongst other forensic professions, the kind of zeal we share for our work is rare. So I was not surprised to find myself spending the rest of the day with Gil Grissom and thought nothing about our exchange of contact information that night.

Nor was I surprised to find email from him a week later with details of a particularly interesting crime scene. Pictures were attached with a note asking me "What do you see?" I scoured over each, made notes and sent back my reply. Then his came a day later with a "look again" and I saw the overlooked evidence so plainly, I marveled at how I could have missed it. Then the pieces fell into place. I picked up the phone and dialed him and we talked it through for hours. It was like this between us for the next year, and without realizing it I had become his protégé.

Somewhere along the way it had happened. I fell for him. I didn't even think about it until one of my girl-friends accused me of it. We were out on the town and I was going on about Gris, how great he was, how I wanted to be like him and how much fun we had working out our cases together. "You've got it bad for this guy!" she teased me.

"What? Grissom? He's like my best friend and mentor. I don't even have those kinds of thoughts about him!" I replied in mock horror. "If you say so" was her reply and our conversation drifted to other things. But like a seed randomly dropped in a garden can sometimes produce the largest yield, her comment put a seed in my brain that had me masturbating before bed that night. It was an easy descent from there.

I began with an obsession with his eyes. They are, of course, his most striking feature. Seeing as I had only met him in person once by this point, it was the thing I most remembered about his physique. I would dream of him making love to me, staring into my soul with those baby blues, and I would wake up wet. Then I became fixated on his voice. After all, this was the one thing of him I had on a regular basis. The way he would say my name when he answered the phone was so endearing, I began to believe that he could feel the same way I felt. That's when I began calling him just to call him. He didn't seem to mind.

One night I worked up the nerve to invite him back to San Francisco. The annual CODIS conference was in town and it made for a good cover for my real reason for wanting him to visit. I reserved two spots and invited him to join me. He didn't hesitate to agree and in a month I found myself face to face with him at San Francisco International. That's when I knew it was more than a crush.

His eyes spoke volumes and his light embrace echoed their sentiment. We had never even hinted at more than a working friendship in our correspondence, but in that moment it was clear that our growing attraction was mutual.

Suddenly I felt like an awkward school girl with a crush on her hot biology teacher. As I drove him to his hotel, the air became thick with sexual tension. We both felt it and he finally tried to ease it with conversation about the upcoming conference.

"We have a new DNA tech who is envious of my ticket to this convention. To put it in his words 'the only thing cooler would be tickets to Diesel Boy,' who ever the hell that is."

I smiled and stifled a laugh, then tried to hide it with a purse of the lips, because strangely, I listen to Diesel Boy. "What?" He asked, eying me credulously. "Nothing" I replied as I debated on putting on their CD for him, but thought better of it as he continued, "You have to meet this kid; Greg Sanders. He has purple spiked hair, dresses like he's homeless but has a degree from Stanford. He's great at his job, when he's not playing air guitar."

He was smiling as he told me about Greg. The elephant that was riding in the car with us, politely took a seat in the back. We made small talk about work the whole way to the hotel and even after Grissom checked in. Once it the room, however, the persistent pachyderm made its presence known again and took a large hop onto the enormous king size bed. I think we both looked at it at the same time and had the same thought, because suddenly it was very hard to continue our conversation.

I couldn't help it. All I could think of in that moment was divesting him of every thread of clothing and taking him hard and long, like in one of those romantic movies. Yeah who am I kidding? Porn movie. It was suddenly very hot in the room and so I wandered over to the air conditioner and turned it down. Then, I figured it was my turn to ease the growing tension in the room. "I really have problems staying in hotels since becoming a CSI. I always feel like I am at work. Not to mention I can't help but think about how much DNA has probably been distributed in every little nook and cranny."

"I try not to think about DNA distribution while on vacation. Of course that will be difficult this time, considering the nature of this vacation." He smiled at me. One of those devilish smiles, the one that lets you know he means the double entendre. I gave him a wide grin and I know I must have gotten a little red in the cheeks.

That's when the flirting began. That much I can nail down. From that point, until years later when things became strained between us, we were rarely in a room alone without every conversation taking on two meanings.

At least the flirting relieved the tension. He was easy to flirt with. He was a master of the subtle look, the not so inadvertent touch. The whole week was one long visual and verbal round of foreplay but for some reason neither of us had the guts to take it any further. Then our last night was upon us.

We decided to hang at the hotel lounge for drinks. We found a booth in a dark corner and ordered a couple rounds.

I think I was afraid of fucking up our friendship with sex. He probably felt the same way, but it was becoming impossible to ignore the desire to fuck each other senseless.

The problem wasn't the fucking so much as the after fucking. To be honest, I really didn't think I wanted more than that at the time. We were both so neck deep in our careers that I couldn't fathom how more than a friendly roll would work. I needed to know that he felt the same way because I didn't want to screw up the best friendship I had had in a while, maybe ever, with sex. Even if it had the chance of being the most mind blowing sex ever.

Then the decision was made for me as my pager went off. I was so pissed. I wasn't even on call, not that it matters in our line of work. I looked at the number and muttered, "Shit." I glanced at the table noting that one and a half drinks would not be enough of an excuse to ignore the call. I wanted to lie to work and tell them there was no way I could make it in even if the Golden Gate Bridge had just been blown up. But, I knew that I could never say no to work and even if I could, this would be the last guy on earth that would appreciate the gesture. In fact that would be likely to blow all chance I would ever have at any kind of relationship with him, platonic or sexual.

I looked up and meet his eyes and saw disappointment mirrored there. "You should call them, see if they need you." I excused myself and called in. Triple. All hands on deck.

I returned to the table to find him paying out. He stood to meet me. "You have to go." It was a statement more than a question and I could see that he had been on the other side of this situation more than his fair share of times.

Then it happened, he put his hand on my cheek, leaned in and kissed me. Slowly, with tongue, and I've never wanted to say "fuck it" more to my responsibilities in all of my life. As he pulled away, he muttered, "Call me if you need to talk it through." He paused as if he was committing this moment to memory, then whispered, "Good night, Sara." He turned and walked away and I went to work.

I did call him about my case. It had bugs; who better to call. It wasn't awkward or hard falling back into our long distance friendship. We never even brought up our experiment beyond friendship. It became just that, an experiment, and a failed one at that.

The flirting continued, the occasional innuendo was thrown out, but there was no reason to even hope to deepen things when you have 400 miles between you. We both had careers we loved, neither was going to leave. What was the point in pursuing that which cannot be caught? The fantasies were becoming less frequent. I dated and had relationships with other men, all guilt free. I mean, occasionally I wondered what if, but I always came to the conclusion that instead of a kiss it would have been a one night stand. Other than that, I was convinced little would have changed.

Then came the call that changed my life. "Sara, I need you. I need someone on the outside, someone I trust to investigate a misconduct issue that resulted in the shooting of one of the Vegas CSIs. I've been promoted to the head of nights and everything is coming at me so fast. I know I can trust you. I know if you investigate this, it is one less thing I will have to worry about going wrong."

I was on the next plane to Vegas. I didn't think about why I was so willing to drop everything and go to him, I just did. It wasn't until he asked me to stay and fill the opening left by Holly Gribbs that I realized that I was not over him. If anything, his asking made it worse. I dropped everything and agreed to stay. I left a great job, with a team that respected me to come to Vegas. It's not like my investigation of Warrick Brown made me a whole bunch of friends. I just couldn't say no to Grissom.

There were times over the next 2 years that I believed it was going to work. Grissom was very much my friend at first. Our flirting continued as always, wrapped up in the veil of work, but we didn't go out. We didn't even call one another anymore. What's the point? We work together; we can talk through everything at work. So I found myself in Vegas, with no friends and with the realization that I was in love with my best friend turned boss who didn't mix business with pleasure, at least not with me.

I wanted to leave and threatened to more than once but each time I stayed for him. He always could make me stay. I can't tell him no. I want to tell him yes, but he won't let me in. In fact the longer I stay the further away he pushes me until I forget that he was my best friend, mentor and a guy I kissed and would have fucked senseless if my damned pager hadn't of gone off.

I still don't know what the hell happened between us. I tried to put my feelings behind me. Even dated, but that blew up in my face.

I finally broke down and asked him out about a year ago. He gave me a flat "No," and told me "I don't know what to do about this." What the hell kind of statement is that?! It's easy; if you don't want me, stop looking at me like you want to take me on the layout room table. Don't touch the small of my back when you bend over me to look at evidence. Don't call me 'Honey' when I'm hurt. Just treat me like one of the guys and we can go on. If you do want me then take me. Fuck work and appropriate conduct. Take me home and fuck _me_. Try us on for size, see what happens. Why does it have to be so damned difficult?!

So I dropped the whole thing. If professional is all he can give then professional is all he'll receive. I distanced myself from him, even pretended to hate him. I buried myself in work and took all of the over time I could handle. I also began drinking more.

I applied for a new position, a promotion of sorts, but was passed over for Nick. Not that it mattered because the position was cut due to lack of funding, but the whole thing pissed me off. I think being pissed off had more to do with my being pulled over than alcohol. I was fine to drive, or Nick and Warrick wouldn't have let me get behind the wheel. I was just so pissed off I couldn't see straight, much less drive straight.

Then I was there, in the waiting room. The cop who pulled me over did me "a favor" and brought me to my supervisor instead of issuing me a ticket that could have cost my career. I guess I should have been grateful, but Gil Grissom is my supervisor. Sometimes I think anything would have been better than having to face Grissom in that moment.

I expected a lecture; I expected him to be pissed. Instead he takes my hand and says "I'll take you home."

What the fuck?!

Just when I think I have everything nicely compartmentalized he throws me a curve. It was just like the time at the hockey rink with his "Since I met you." comment. He makes my heart ache out of my chest. I want to hate him but I can't. I'm stuck loving him and it sucks! Fucking bastard.

I guess it feels good to get things off my chest. It's not like I have a shit load of friends to cry on here in Vegas. Some life I've made for myself.

I want to work this all out. I like working at this lab. I just wish I could put this whole Gil Grissom business behind me so that I can have a life. I wish that I could fall for someone like Greg. He would have me in a second and we would have fun. I wouldn't have to wonder how he feels because he would tell me. Too bad it would be like kissing my brother. Too bad that every time he flirts with me I wish he were Grissom.

Why does this shit have to be so hard?


	2. Chapter 2

**Reflections**

 _Rating: M (language, sexual suggestion)_  
 _Paring: GSR_  
 _Genre: angst_  
 _Disclaimer: I don't own CSI or any of the characters. I don't make money from this (duh)._

 _FYI: This is a sequel to my story Writing Therapy . Reflections was prompted by slip_of_the_pen who commented "It would be interesting to see what Grissom would write in his own diary about this same time period... (*shameless hint*)."_

 _It was hard for me writing from Grissom's POV and it was never given the love of a beta._

* * *

I know the exact moment I fell in love with Sara Sidle.

We met at one of my conferences and I found her to be as beautiful as she was brilliant. She asked so many pointed, well conceive questions that afterwards, I hopped down from the stage and introduce myself to her. I asked her to lunch. She didn't even squirm at the subject matter as she ate and continued to ask questions.

We kept correspondence after that; purely on the up and up, all business. I loved to challenge her mind and she loved to be challenged. I found I could work cases faster with her input and she brought her cases to me for new perspective.

Of course, I am a man, and she is my type of woman. I had my fair share of shower time fantasies about her. It was never about love, just more base matters.

Then she invited me to join her at the CODIS conference. It sounded like fun and I wondered about the fringe benefits that might be implied. When I got to San Francisco and met her at the air port, I could feel the electricity between us. I gave her a small hug, the kind you give a friend. The simple gesture made the tension between us thick.

On the way to the hotel I tried to lighten things up with talk of the lab. It worked for a while but once we stepped foot in my hotel room I was gone.

I glanced around the room and took in my surrounding; then I looked at the bed. I wanted to have her in it naked. All I could think about was how her lips would feel against mine, how her legs would feel wrapped around me, how she would feel on the inside.

She broke the silence growing between us with small talk, something about DNA distribution in hotel rooms. As she spoke, I couldn't help but imagine what it would be like to distribute my DNA deep inside her.

"I try not to think about DNA distribution while on vacation. Of course, that will be difficult this time, considering the nature of this vacation." I couldn't help myself. I smiled at her and she blushed. Then she rewarded my flirtation with the most beautiful gapped toothed grin I'd ever seen. She was so intoxicating with her skin slightly flushed, and I wondered what other, more intimate, parts of her looked like while aroused.

I am not a spontaneous man. If I were, I would have made love to Sara in that moment, so young, and so beautiful. But, I am not that man.

I think too much, which in my line of work is a great trait to have. However, for matters of the heart, this trait leaves me lonely more often than not. Logic always wins out over passion. As much as I wanted her, I knew that acting on my lustful impulses could create a chasm in our friendship. There was a strong case that we could become intimate, but I wanted to go in head first, not heart first, so that neither of us got hurt. As Cicero wrote, "Let your desires be ruled by reason."

Therein lies the rub. If one uses reason in matters of the heart, one will often find the excuse he needs to avoid the possibility of a broken heart. I live in Vegas, after all, so I know about odds. I mean, sure, she might have a school girl crush on me now, but what about 10 years from now, when I am in so deep I can't find my way without her? Will she grow tired of being with an old man? Will she find someone younger, someone who will please her more? She could, but then would I survive having known love on that level, only to have it torn away?

I was ready to say "fuck it" by the end of the week. We went to the hotel bar for drinks. I had made up my mind. I wanted Sara Sidle in a most intimate way. I wanted to kiss every inch of hear pied skin, lick my way up the length of her luscious, long, legs. I wanted to taste her, smell her, make her wet, make her beg to have me inside of her, tease her then give it to her long, slow and deep.

I imagined these things as we drank and discussed the conference. Then the inevitable happened. Her pager went off and with it my hopes came crashing back to reality. "Shit" was all she said as she stared at the number. I knew, because I was usually the one in her shoes, work had just ended our night and our chance. Even if I could get past my hang-ups with our age difference, work would always be first.

"You should call them, see if they need you." I know my statement was tinted with regret and I could see that regret mirrored in Sara's eyes as she excused herself to make the call. I sat there for a moment and tried to delude myself into believing she wouldn't have to leave. Then reality sank in and I pulled out my wallet to pay the tab.

Sara returned as I laid the money on the table and I stood to meet her. "You have to go."

Then I did something I rarely do. I acted without thinking, placed a hand on Sara's cheek, leaned in and kissed her. Not just a friendly peck, but a slow "I've never wanted to be with _anyone_ like I want to be with you" full on, with tongue, kiss. And she kissed me back.

I muttered, "Call me if you need to talk it through." I took a second to commit the moment to memory, then whispered, "Good night, Sara." and walked away.

In that moment I came to realize that if I ever were with Sara Sidle there would be no going back. That one kiss was more intense, and full of more promise than the most intimate sexual encounter. If I were to take her to bed, I would be lost to her.

Did I say to hell with it and dive in head first like Romeo?

No; I distinctly remember that both Romeo and Juliet died for their passion.

Those are the thoughts that keep me awake at night, that make me hold her at arm's length in the day. If I love her this much, only having one kiss, what will happen to me when I have her in my bed?

Yet I asked her to come here. Why? I didn't even consider asking anyone else; she came to mind and so I called her. And she came, no, questions, no reservations then I asked her to stay and she stayed. She left her entire life and career to come to Vegas. Was the job offer tempting? Yes. Did she come for the job? No. I knew this then, and I know this now, yet I can't get past my own doubts and fears. This is maybe the strongest evidence supporting my belief that she deserves better, deserves more, than me.

She has tried to make the most of it. She dated for awhile; fucking bastard was with someone else the entire time. That perhaps is my biggest regret. I could have saved her that hurt; I could have but I acted like an impotent old man.

She asked me out, but I said no. Why?

Fear.

Fear can kill, so I am not surprised that it hinders my common sense. Girl wants boy, boy needs girl, boy and girl date, make love and live happily ever after, or at least have a good time trying. It is so simple, yet my fear causes happiness to elude me at every turn. My fear for self, my fear for Sara, but what the hell is it I am so afraid of. I can't put it into words; she strips me of that ability.

I'd like to blame my hearing, but that is now resolved. Maybe blame it on her being my subordinate. One of us could move to days. Fear of rejection? She kissed me back; she moved to Vegas; she asked me out. Maybe it's the loss of self; I've been a recluse most of my life. Would I know how to share more than my bed with a woman? Will real life live up to the fantasy?

I don't know the answer, and that pisses me off.


End file.
